


Darling Darling

by Suiisen



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Leading up to nsfw but it's never actually written, angstttttt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27178561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suiisen/pseuds/Suiisen
Summary: Time; it's always a matter of time. And there's never enough of it.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi & Reader, Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Kudos: 21





	Darling Darling

**Author's Note:**

> 𝐚/𝐧; please note that I do not agree with or support adultery or any other theme within this, no matter the circumstances. this is purely a fictional, literary piece, inspired by music and written only for the narrative, not as a means of romanticising adultery or anything else included!!

2:30 AM.

Imperfect silence - the soft rise and fall of your chest gently seeps in to taint it. Blurred, subdued, painted in halftones under the night sky - the only other sounds come from the outside world as you wait. Half awake, lying in standby amongst the soft chrome of moon-cast shadows filtering in through the crystal glass; they render a familiar sight - but your eyes are focused elsewhere. Nightshade perfume laces your skin - his favourite. The sweet fragrance touches every inch and centimetre of it, blossoming at the slightest brush of a thumb or finger - you did the same.

At 2:35, the stillness within your apartment of photographic film is shattered by a welcome ring. The caller ID appears - a small photo, his surname followed by his first name; Sakusa, Kiyoomi. Clinging to the name but not the picture - never the picture - you fumble to answer it. His warm voice on the other side of the line calls an end to your standby for yet another night.

"Y/n. Can we meet tonight?" He asks, both parties already aware of the response to his question; you spoke it anyway.

"Yes, I'd love that." A smile warms the quiet monochrome of your visage, eyes cast down as if to let the moonlight pool upon your lashes, heat rising in your cheeks.

"I'll be there in half an hour, then." The slightest fractal of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips, unseen by you - only your assumption grants it an existence in your imagination.

The call ends abruptly without a single pause for your response. Fingertips trace the faint line of your collarbones, pausing for but a second on the pearl string hovering above them as you drink in ghosts of the rich tones in his voice. Gaze turned toward the window, you observe: the night seeps in to spill it's moonshade ink on each tiny room - you never stayed here long anyway. It was comfortable; functional. But you never stayed longer than need be - he was the end goal.

Motion comes next; a beige overcoat routinely leaves its place on the wall to huddle your shoulders, the hanger tapping softly against the surface as a means of farewell to the cloth. Keys turning softly in the lock signal your leave of the apartment; the click of your heels picks up haste with each concrete step of the apartment stairwell. One more, one more - then another and another. Eventually you reach the ground floor, pushing open the heavy doors - the night floods the greyscale of your surroundings, seeping into the graphite tones with rich and winter-born hue.

It's cold outside. 

The low temperature wastes no time in making itself known to all, nipping at the exposed skin of your cheeks, your face, your legs - not even the overcoat can do much to shield them from its dulled fangs. Yet the frost works to preserve that favourite nightshade of his while red carnations bloom beneath the flesh he'd take the care to touch, hands gentle. Each step is a step away from wilting - away from the lifeless grey of the apartment and into the beauty of a watercoloured winter dark.

3:00 AM.

There's a handful of people out at this hour. Even if there were more, none would question an individual walking with a purpose in mind - with a place to be. A lonely figure emerges before you, beneath the soft yellow light of an ornate lamppost a little further in the distance. You speed up, pick up your pace - the sound of heels against pavement dominates the atmosphere until your destination is met.

Sakusa.

The usual streetlight - you always met here. Its light falls to illuminate the black of his curls, painting them with delicate yet bold strokes of an invisible brush; the dark of his brown eyes remains. Inches away from him, you open your mouth to speak; no words come out. They're replaced by a sharp intake of the atmosphere; it's cold. It burns. 

His hand comes to rest on your cheek, calloused but comforting - the pad of his thumb traces soft skin with fondness as a nightshade blossoms beneath his touch. Your lips are parted slightly, the hot breath that escapes fogging up the air with phantoms of what you had wanted to say to him but hadn't. Drunken on the physical contact, there's almost a gasp as Sakusa's hand comes away from your cheek, exposing it once more to the harsh night air. Wordlessly, the click of heels against pavement resounds again.

Quiet and still - it remains so even when fractals of snow fall from the indigo canvas above; neither of you dare to break it, walking hand in hand. His are larger than yours; slightly rougher, more boney. There's a supressed smile fighting the corners of your mouth, chest tightening from the "male presence" they carry as he traces your palm and index finger. From beneath your moonbathed lashes, you have to look up to see Sakusa's face; the way the light falls upon his features, sitting within the dark of his eyes - and unable to catch a glimpse of his expression, you have no way of knowing what he's thinking. 

* * *

The tidy clock face of Sakusa's wristwatch reads 3:15 AM upon arrival, lights flicked on. It's all routine - the usual lamppost, the usual place, a secret hidden away somewhere - neatly tucked away within the landscape. Routine...where exactly had the line become blurred between routine and purpose; the unshakeable core of your existence. Sakusa takes off his darker overcoat, slipping from your shoulders the beige of yours - making sure to leave a ghost trail on your skin before turning away to hang the snow dusted clothing. Even here in this familiar room, everything is quiet, tense. Biting down on painted lips, you await his direction - something. Anything.

"We don't have much time today." They're barely a whisper, enveloped in the blossoming stillness of the atmosphere and scent of black nightshade. Anticipation rises within the pit of your stomach, burning like raw hot coals; Sakusa is calm, patient. 

"That's ok, I understand." You murmur back in a hushed tone. This was wrong - this was immoral. You knew that; you knew, but you've long stopped yearning for morality.

There's little talk after that; you take his hand, leading him toward the apartment's bedroom with little resistance. It's a comfortable silence - drunk on it you become bolder, though still too awkward to communicate the feelings festering inside. Words fail you both: they're difficult, they're fickle - "I love you" becomes light the moment it's spoken, losing the weight behind carefully crafted syllables and intricate scripture.

Fine black silk slides from your shoulders, pooling on the soft carpet beneath; you're both holding something back. He pulls on his tie to loosen it; you both have things you hide away from the world in the comfort of secrecy, those truths neither wants to show. The tie falls to the ground, beside the nocturne fabric of your dress; understanding that, neither steps in further than necessary, allowing the maintenance of your relationship.

There's a hunger in the rich ebony depths of Sakusa's eyes as they drink you in - a hunger you never need to name, knowing it all too well. It sparks, flickers, burning and dancing amongst the dark of his irises; drunk on the very sight of it you swallow, letting the sweet honey parch your throat. You love it, relishing in the saccharine char; the feeling of recognising your own existence for the first time — it makes you wonder if you're really human, doing this.

Articles of clothing come to form capitals and monoliths on one side of the room, an urban landscape of their own. Sakusa's fingers trace the gentle skin of your shoulders as the last mantle piece for the city of fabric you'd both created falls away; your painted lips graze his. He smells of calla lilies, fresh press print and smoke, resting his head against yours.

By 5:00 AM you'll have to leave him, going back to the monotone grey of your small apartment and it's chrome-coloured loneliness; "tomorrow" is perpetual - it still comes for people like you, those who revel in their little havens of secrecy and poison nightshade. 

How wonderful would it be if you could just abandon everything? If only you could have that happiness, if only you could look at him as your own. 

"Turn the lights off." Your words come as a hushed murmur, restless. It's not the embarrassment; the idea of light being shone upon this gnaws away at the pit of your stomach, breeding discomfort.

Sakusa complies in a hurried manner, and the room falls into a quiet darkness. You close your eyes as he kisses you once more, moonlight bathed lashes brushing against his cheek for but a second, his hot breath on your face - after this it will be impossible to think. Silvery threads of moonlight filter in, replacing the dying gold of the apartment's LEDs; he can't wait anymore. You relish it, the same way he revels in the curve of your neck like pure white calla lilies and the subtle fragrance of black nightshade on your skin - that specifically is your happiness, your sense of purpose; you're intoxicated by the way he loses his composure, you're dependant on it.

Ah, it hurts.


End file.
